


Little by Little, Love

by novelogical (writingmonsters)



Category: Burnt (2015)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-26 08:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingmonsters/pseuds/novelogical
Summary: "Everyone wants something, you can't tell me that isn't how the world works." He ticks off one-by-one "sex, money, drugs, fame -- hell, half the people I slept with were after one or the other, or all of the above. So what is it?"And Tony -- Tony thinks he starts to understand.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Tom Grennan's "Little by Little Love".  
> How many ways will I rewrite these scenes? This time it's Adam having all of the feelings.

_And I saw my devils closing in_

_Never thought I’d do such bad things_

_You saved me, though_

_Little by little love_

_And I tried so hard to bury that stuff_

_Never thought I’d get so fucked up_

_You save me though_

_Little by little love_

  
There is no protective barrier between them -- no lens of plausible deniability anymore. Not with Rosshilde’s words hanging over his head. Adam cannot take it back now, cannot pretend he never heard. The world seems recolored, brought sharply into focus around Tony who fidgets, turning the invitation over and over in his hands.

 _He loves me_.

Why does the thought scare him so much?

“Well,” Tony hums, and there is something -- _something_ \-- that hesitates at the edges of the words, between the lilt of his accent and the way he rocks back on his heels, unwilling to look Adam in the eye. “If you go you should take someone with you.” The briefest of hesitations. “Someone to stop you from getting into a fight with him” awkwardly tacked on.

How long have they been circling one another? Forever playing their silent, unacknowledged give-and-take.

But Tony never pushes. And Adam always pushes too much.

“You mean like you?” _Dare me to ask you_.

“No.” _Yes_.

This is not something they speak of. Safer for it to be unacknowledged. For Adam to never ask and Tony to never tell.

“Your therapist's got a big mouth.” Adam’s eyes are glacial -- cold and unreadable -- fixed on Tony. And he knows before the words have even hit the air between them that he’s fucking this up entirely, that it’s all going wrong. But he can’t stop himself. Never could. He only knows how to wound.

He might have missed it before -- the way Tony cringes into himself, fracturing. But now, Adam is all too sharply aware. And the damage is already done.

Tony draws himself up, shrugs it off. The way he has always shrugged off Adam’s explosions, his cutting, bitter words. “It's nothing you didn't already know.” But his eyes shimmer with the hurt of it, his voice raw and wistful. “You said, in your restaurant, that everything was possible.”

“ _Tony_.” Too late.

“But…” A hard swallow, the words dragged painfully from his throat. “I know not everything is possible.”

And he’s _wrong_ , Adam wants to say. You’re wrong, it is possible. But it’s a mess, he’s a mess, and the whole thing crumbles -- slips away before he can find the words.

“Look.” Adam fumbles. Stupid. “Tony. You -- uh, you hungry?” It’s like he has no idea how to speak; doesn’t have _words_ for the snarl of fondness and fear and guilt that lodges itself in his throat, tangles like brambles in his chest. “Can I make you breakfast or something?”

It’s an idiotic, feeble offering when there are a thousand things he really wants to say, all of them trapped behind his ribs, all of them without the language to explain.

He wants to reach for Tony, gather him into his arms and soothe away the miserable, dejected shadow that darkens his face. Wants to kiss away the hitch in his breath when Tony says faintly “you mean, cook me breakfast instead of falling in love with me?”

And there it is. _Love_.

The word lingers there between them, abandoned in the open, and it _hurts_. It’s ugly and horrible and all gone to pieces and Tony can’t stand it. “No. Thank you.” The shame burns, and Tony can’t bear to stand there a moment longer -- already has his hand on the door -- couldn’t survive being further humiliated. “I already ate.”

He is gone before it occurs to Adam that he wants to tell him to stay.

“Damn it.” Adam can’t let this go. He groans, drags his hands down his face, and makes a choice. “ _Tony_!”

The elevators do not move fast enough.

Tony had known it would never end well, but still he had been stupid enough to hope. Had made a fool of himself, had let himself believe -- _stupid_ , the recriminations throw themselves again and again to the forefront of his thoughts. _You idiot. You useless, stupid moron what did you think was going to happen?_

“ _Shit_.”

He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, biting back the sob that fights its way from the deep, wounded place within him. The tears sting, heavy on his lower lashes.

“Tony, _wait_.”

And Adam catches him by the shoulders, crowding Tony, spinning him around to face him -- he can never let it be, can’t let well enough alone. Hasn’t enough damage been done? Tony squirms, tries to twist away, but Adam holds him fast.

“Tony -- _Tony_. _Please_.”

Scrubbing viciously at his damp eyes, Tony lifts his chin, jaw set firm and hard. He is furious, fragile. His heart gives one last pang of anguish in his chest. “You have nothing to fear, your position here is safe,” he assures Adam coldly. “You will get your third star in the Langham kitchens and I will be _proud_ to watch you do it.” His breath hitches dangerously, traitorously. The elevator chimes. “I am not so _petty_ \-- but please, Adam, for fuck's sake let go of me.”

He can’t do this. He can’t...

“It wasn't _instead of.”_

The elevator doors sigh. Tony remains standing in the hall.

“What?”

_Please. Don’t do this to me._

“Offering to cook you breakfast.” Adam’s low, insistent voice is nearly drowned by the rush of blood in his ears, the racing gallop of his heartbeat. And he hardly understands it himself, but Tony _has_ to know. He can’t leave it between them like this. “I didn't mean instead of falling in love with you.”

“I don’t understand.” Tony looks at him like he might fall apart, like Adam’s hands on his shoulders are the only thing holding him up.

“Look. Can we talk?” Adam cants his head, softens his tone. Speaks so, so gently to Tony who seems so imminently breakable. “I'll cook breakfast, okay? How about crepes?”

Tony hesitates. Adam catches the faint quaver in his bottom lip.

“Banana and cinnamon, just the way you like?” he prompts. And Adam Jones has never sounded so tender, so fond -- not toward Tony.

“Okay.”

Adam does him the kindness of ignoring the way his voice breaks. When the elevator arrives, he follows Tony inside.

Neither one of them speaks.

The air between them is heavy, weighted with all the unspoken, half-understood things. In the gleaming chrome paneling, Adam studies Tony’s reflection; the damning fear in his wide brown eyes.

“Please don’t look like that, Tony.” And Adam sounds like the sight has pierced him to the quick. “Please?”

“I don’t…” Tony swallows hard. “What do you mean?”

“Like I’m the executioner and you’re just waiting for me to deliver the fucking death blow.” Adam reaches for him then, infinitely gentle when he smooths his knuckles along the curve of Tony’s cheek. “Like you’re terrified.” He smudges away the tears that linger on Tony’s eyelashes. “I’m sorry. I know that isn’t enough -- but I’m so sorry, Tony.”

Tony sags -- defeated -- and Adam draws him in, cradles him close. Wonders if Tony can feel the hysteria that vibrates at the ends of his nerves and sinews.

“Adam.” Tony’s voice is gentle, quiet when he finally pulls away. “Your heart is racing.”

The elevator chimes.

“Is it?” He chokes on the rising, half-wild pitch in his throat.

And all at once, Tony takes the lead; slips his slender fingers into Adam’s grasp and draws him along silently. Adam lets himself be guided, his legs numb, his mind whirling. The kitchen, at least, is familiar territory and Adam leaves Tony leaning against the pass as he searches out the ingredients that run like a liturgy through his mind.

“Adam.”

His hands shake. Why are his hands shaking?

Tony says a little louder “Adam? You want to talk while you cook, or…?”

“No, no.” Adam  works on auto-pilot. Feels completely brainless. “We can talk.”

But Tony doesn’t press the issue. Adam cracks eggs and whisks in flour and water and Tony indulges his silence. And that’s the problem isn’t it -- Tony _always_ indulges, and it just doesn’t make _sense_.

Adam doesn’t understand.

It bursts out of him, too loud in the kitchen’s silence, too frustrated. “God, I just can’t figure it out, Tony.” He doesn’t look at him, keeps his eyes on the crepes. Cooking; the only thing he has ever done well. “I mean -- look -- I’ve never done the whole relationship thing. Not with _anyone_. Friends, family, I couldn’t even keep the same fuck-buddy for more than a week at a time. I mean, you know that.” He snorts. “But there’s always you.” And, baffled, he does turn then, leans back against the counter to study Tony. Still half-puzzled. “You’re always here, and I always keep coming back to you. I keep _thinking_ about you.”

There is only the scrape of the spatula, the click of the china plate set on the pass in front of Tony.

A little unnerved, a little trembly, Tony purses his lips. Considering. There is no choice but to be candid now.

“After Paris, I did not think you would ever come back.” He makes his confession to the gleaming white surface of the counter, the tips of his ears flushed. “I did not think I would ever see you again. And…” He swallows the words, reconsidering, canting his head thoughtfully as he reaches for the fork. “I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter -- that it was a stupid crush and I would get over it. Over you.” When he does look Adam in the eye, there is a resolve there that Adam has never seen before, a quiet acceptance of whatever will come next with his quiet admission. “But I still love you, unfortunate as that may be.”

They are elbow-to-elbow at the pass and Adam leans on his elbows, considering. His eyes are pale in the light, bright as ice chips, rooting around in the depths of Tony’s soul for answers. “I thought about you a lot. After.”

After the complete fuck-up that was his exodus from Paris, after he’d fled to Louisiana and dragged himself through a detox. Shucking oysters in New Orleans and wondering -- about the restaurant, about his future. About Tony. Checking the news to see that Jean Luc’s restaurant had gone under. Think he should call.

He should have called.

God, he’d missed Tony so much -- hadn’t known how much until it burst full and bright like a firework in his heart seeing the familiar face tight with anger and indignation in the middle of the hotel room.

“What do you want from me, Tony?”

The question floors him, entirely unexpected. Tony blinks, puzzled, trying not to choke on his mouthful. “I -- _nothing_ , Adam. I don’t…?”

“Come on.” Adam forks up a large bite of his crepe, unimpressed. “Everyone wants something, you can’t tell me that isn’t how the world works.” He ticks off one-by-one “sex, money, drugs, fame -- hell, half the people I ever slept with were after one or the other, or all of the above. So what is it?”

And Tony -- Tony thinks he starts to understand.

Adam Jones is a tragedy, and Tony is one of the few people to know the full extent of it.

_He had a difficult childhood, you know? His father… No mother._

A father who beat him, a mother who abandoned him.

_Handed off from one relative to the next._

Unwanted.

Then he had become a two-star Michelin chef, a prodigy, a genius -- and everyone had wanted something. Sex. Money. Drugs. Fame.

“Oh, _Adam_.” Tony is gentle with his name; says it softly, sadly.

The carefulness of it, the tenderness, kindles something mournful in Adam. Something angry and heartsore. _Why_? He wants to ask. _Why do you care? Why are you so kind?_ “I just -- I don’t understand you, Tony. I don’t know why you bother to stick around. I mean, Jesus Christ, I’ve been such a bastard to you. Why are you still here?” And he knows he is too harsh, has never known how not to rage, to burn, to wound. Even though it isn’t what he wants. “You can’t be that much of a masochist.”

Tony scratches at the tip of his nose, unable to look Adam in the eye. Not ashamed -- not quite. But shy. Struggling fiercely with the confession so long kept silent. “I…” He hesitates. “Not a masochist, no.”

“Just in love with me.” And the hysteria rises again in a hum of static through his bones, thoughts reduced to gibberish. Panic.

“Yes.”

“What if I don’t love you?” It’s childish and petulant, Adam knows it, but there is something so desperate in him -- something that needs to push. To test the waters.

He is so afraid.

“Then nothing changes.” Tony shrugs, irons his mouth into a thin, grim line. “I did not think you loved me -- really, I do not expect you to.” It kills him to say it. Breaks his heart -- not for the first time. “I want to see you have all the success you deserve because you are _that_ good, and I want to see you succeed without having to fight for every inch. Anything else?” He waves his hand in dismissal, chokes down another bite of the crepe -- untasted -- to avoid letting Adam see the way he fractures. “It doesn’t matter.”

He means every word of it.

He had never expected that Adam could love him, not really.

“And what if…” It’s Adam’s turn to hesitate. The words are so dangerous, poised on his lips. “What if I am in love with you? Because I can’t think what else it would be -- you’re in my head, Tony. I mean, you’re practically in my _marrow_.”

Tony -- in every fragile, foolish dream he had allowed himself -- never expected that.

“Adam --”

“No, look --” Adam holds up a hand, silencing him. He feels wrecked, raw-edged and wrung out. “Look, I gotta understand, Tones. It can’t just be because you’re in love with me -- there has to be… it doesn’t make sense.”

It takes every bit of courage Tony has to draw himself up, to take Adam’s hand in his own and say earnestly, fiercely “I love you. Your smile. Your stubbornness. Your passion for your work. Even the mood swings, the perfectionism, the madness.” He smiles like the sun. “It is really that simple. I love you because I cannot help it, and all I want is for you to be _happy_.”

And Adam is still grasping, grappling for all the reasons why it’s impossible, why it can’t and shouldn’t be. “What if I’m happier with someone else?”

Tony ignores the sting -- another new wound. “Then,” he has to fight his way around the words. Hates it. But he will not lie to Adam. “You will break my heart. But I will not hold it against you.”

There is no one else, Adam knows it. He knows it as surely as he knows how much seasoning is just right for each dish. There is no one else who could feel as perfect at his side, who could know him and love him the way Tony does.

There is no one else he wants to love.

But still the question comes, half in anguish. “What if this doesn’t work?”

Only a breath between them. Tony’s eyes are warm and his lips faintly parted; just a tilt of his head and Adam might taste him.

“Then at least we’ll have tried.” And how can Tony be so quietly accepting? So fearless where Adam is so terribly afraid.

“Can I kiss you?” Almost apart from himself, Adam’s fingers stray to Tony’s mouth, to the curve of his chin. The pad of his thumb slides along the corner of his lip, catching the dust of powdered sugar caught there.

“ _Please_.”

Adam does.

He kisses the way he cooks -- with every fiber of his being. His fingers wind their way into the softness of Tony’s perfect hair, and Tony’s hands find his shoulders, the hinge of his jaw, the collar of his t-shirt. Seeking something to hold on to, something to keep him being swept away as he is bent backward across the pass, as Adam kisses him and he melts.

This will work. _They_ will work. They always have.


	2. Chapter 2

Kissing Adam -- being kissed _by_ Adam -- is not an experience Tony could ever have dreamed. Adam kisses him deep and thorough, all heat and exploring tongue, leaves not an inch of Tony untouched by roaming, desperate hands.

Adam mouths a line of kisses and gentle bites along the line of his jaw and Tony is soft and pliant against him. Breathlessly eager.

And they have to breathe -- allow just enough space between them to gasp and grin, slipping back into reality.

Adam smiles, strokes his thumb across the swell of Tony's cheek. With wide pupils and a soft, slack mouth, Tony looks dazzled. Adam feels the best kind of wrecked.

“You have that shirt?” he asks, leaning his forehead against Tony's warm temple. “The pink one with the --” he gestures stupidly. “Plaid?”

“Yes?”

“Wear it tomorrow. It looks good on you."

Tony looks like he is torn between asking why and pointing out that gingham and plaid are not the same thing, but he knows there is no point where it comes to a man who owns two dress shirts and not a single tie. And -- _it looks good on_ _you_. He would be a liar if he said that didn’t make his heart leap.

“Why?”

“I need a date to Reece's reopening, don't I?” Adam is all soft eyes and amusement. “Someone to keep me from getting into a fight with him?”

It's one thing for Adam to say... to kiss him -- another thing entirely…

Tony hates the tenuous hesitation in his voice, the way he has to ask. “You are sure?”

For all his cockiness, rarely has Adam Jones been as sure as he is of this. “Look, I know it's fast -- believe me, my head’s still spinning -- but I'm _sure_. I want you with me.” He beams at Tony, and that is it. Tony is lost. “Besides, who else would I ask? _Helene_?”

“I… well…” Tony sucks in his cheeks, eyes darting. Looking anywhere but at Adam. _Yes_ , he will not say. _That is exactly what I thought would_ _happen_.

“Say ‘yes’?” Adam is desperate to hear it, nerves jangling. For once he is at Tony Balerdi's mercy instead of the other way around. He would wait forever for a ‘yes’. “You'll go to the reopening with me? I wanted to ask you the moment you appeared with that invitation, but I had to make an ass of myself first.”

There is no need for Tony to consider. “Yes. Of course, yes.”

The rush of relief all but sweeps Adam off his feet. Giddy, elated, he bobs his head, nodding “okay. Okay, that's great. I -- yeah.” And he can't help himself, ducks in to press another kiss to Tony's stunned mouth.

Stupid and soft and still dazed by it all, Tony lifts trembling fingers, traces the lingering hum of Adam on his kissed-pink lips.

 _What a sight,_ Adam thinks. _I did that to him -- why did I never think to do it before?_ Just kisses, and Tony already looks ruined. What would he look like properly fucked-out -- the thought is too much to bear. But it’s one Adam plans to pursue.

Grinning, he twines a strand of Tony's soft hair around his finger. “You may wanna -- uh, you're gonna want to straighten yourself out before service.” He cannot help but laugh.

There is mischief, bright and wicked, in Tony’s umber eyes. “There is no help for me as far as _being straight_ is concerned. Don't you know this?”

He's terrible. Just _terrible_. Adam loves it.

Smothering his laughter, Adam gives him a nudge. “Just fix your goddamn sex hair.”

Tony kisses his cheek, feeling splendidly brave, and disappears into the office.

It's absurd, really; all the lingering looks and brief, soft touches that pass between them all through service. Is this real? It feels so dangerously fragile -- new and nervous and hesitating. But _right_. And every time, without fail, Adam's heart gives a little leap of excitement -- elation -- like he's a goddamn teenager.

All at once, the world has changed.

The relaunch -- their date -- arrives and they each disappear a few minutes early from the afternoon service. Adam to his hotel room to scrounge for the dress shirt that _isn’t_ wrinkled beyond repair, Tony changing in the office and trying to avoid casting any sort of shadow on the frosted glass wall that separates him from the kitchen.

Adam is rolling up his sleeves in the hotel foyer when Tony appears. And it's Tony, nothing has radically changed, but all of a sudden Adam is _seeing_ Tony -- and he’s beautiful.

Casual is a good look on Tony, rare as it is. For once, he is not buttoned up in layers of perfectly pressed suits and Windsor-knots.

“Hi. Tony.” Adam has to shake himself, realizes he's staring like an idiot, drinking in the sight of his tightly-wound, carefully guarded maitre d’ so... at ease. He has forgone the suit jacket and tie, sleeves rolled to the elbow, top button undone. Just that much, those small differences, it feels more intimate to see Tony like this than it might if he was naked. “You look…” Christ, Adam can’t even manage to fumble a sentence together -- feels like someone has taken a whisk to his brain. “You look great.”

“You don't clean up so badly yourself.” Delighted, Tony cannot help the faint blush that rises to his cheeks. “Come -- we don't want to be late.”

In the back of the cab, Tony bites his lip and dares to risk slipping his hand into Adam’s. Adam draws circles over the pulse-point in his wrist, muses aloud about the reopening; what changes Reece will have made, the who’s-who of the London kitchens who might be there.

And he tries not to think about that one too much -- about all the people who know and know _of_ Adam Jones and the wreckage he left strewn in his wake -- when they draw up outside the restaurant amid the milling of guests and flash of cameras.

He steels himself. Keeps his eyes down to avoid the blinding flashbulb bursts as he circles the cab.

Tony unfolds himself from the backseat in one smooth movement, hesitates when Adam offers his arm. “Adam -- are you sure?” Anxious eyes find the smattering of photographers over Adam’s shoulder. “People will talk.”

“Does that bother you?” That sends a terrible pang of doubt through Adam’s core. Tony, who has always been so quietly sure of himself, who has never allowed anyone to make him feel ashamed for who he is -- he wouldn’t blame him if he were embarrassed, ashamed to be seen with Adam after everything he’s done. “People talking?”

But Tony snorts, doesn’t even entertain the notion. “No, of course not. But you --?”

Always trying to protect Adam.

“ _I_ am going to escort my date.”    

 _Date_.

And doesn’t that do things to Tony -- makes his heart turn somersaults in the confines of his chest. Leaves him breathless.

_My date._

Perhaps, where Adam Jones is concerned, all things are possible after all.    

“I've been working more on the potato truffle veloute.” Adam says distractedly, glancing around the newly furnished interior of Reece’s pride and joy. Everyone scattered about with plates and flutes of champagne, strangers and familiar faces alike. “I think we should put it on the menu tomorrow, as a sort of modern take on sole bonne femme."

Tony favors him with a quiet smile, already knowing. “Michelin loves a celebration of French cuisine.”

“I fuckin' hope so.”

The restaurant is exceedingly modern -- all minimalism and hard edges, slick and clean enough that Adam thinks surgeons could probably operate on the tables. He says as much to Tony who purses his lips, proclaiming it very _en vogue_ in certain circles, but who has to agree. There is no ambiance, no real life to the front-of-house design.

Adam studies the spread of food, plated along the tables and says “this is a magazine spread, not a culinary orgasm.”

Tony turns the most brilliant shade of pink.

And he would say more; would continue his running commentary, would draw out Tony’s own opinions on the matter -- there had been plenty of heated arguments over the course of the Langham’s renovations -- but he spots the familiar face moving toward them and, instantly, his hackles are raised. “Reece.”

“Hello, Jones.” Montgomery Reece looks him up and down with a sardonic lift of his eyebrows. “You find a nice flat surface yet? And Tony…” He says his name with a bright, drawn out hum of curiosity. “Unexpected.”

“Reece.” Tony stiffens and Adam can _feel_ the chill of the bland, polite mask that settles over his bright face. “You are well?”

“Quite. Do tell me how it is you've ended up as this bastard's plus one, Tony.” Reece drawling, unimpressed, is still fond of Tony. Still impressed by the little maitre d’ from Paris -- back then, he had always treated Tony like a tag-along kid brother. “I didn't think… _Oh_.” His face is grim. “Oh, Tony you poor fucker. You haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?” Tony cold and quiet is infinitely more dangerous than the Tony who shouts and rages and curses.

“Haven’t let him fuck you over any more than he already has.” Reece sighs, despairing. “He’s just going to take advantage of you -- use up all that earnest, misguided love of yours -- all those second and third chances -- and it’ll be just like Jean Luc’s. He’ll explode and take you, and everything you’ve worked for, with him. Or have you forgotten Paris?”

“Obviously you haven’t.” The words are quick, but Adam has gone numb, his stomach sinking. “You're doing me almost as good as me, Reece. And you're using butter. Where'd you come up with that idea?”

A different fight. A desperate attempt at redirection.

“Piss off, Jones.” Reece spares him a vicious, chilly look. “You never should have come back -- you should have rotted in Louisiana, you goddamn junkie.”

There is a terrible nausea that creeps into Adam's throat, strangles any protest.

All he knows is destruction. Ruins.

Somewhere far away, he is aware of Tony; spitting mad, speaking low and fast and with every sentence punctuated by a rapid-fire Rosetta Stone of curses. Defending Adam -- always defending Adam.

“-- I don’t care, _Reece_ \--”

“All I’m saying is --”

“-- and _I_ am saying put your fucking _carajo_ away and quit holding his mistakes over him in your fucking bullshit ‘who’s the better chef’ game.”

And Adam would say something, would interject, except -- for a moment he thinks he sees...

A ghost.

Anne Marie.

It’s Reece who utters a quiet “oh shit.”

Tony glances up, sees the color that has drained from Adam’s face. “Adam?” His eyes follow the blue, thousand-yard stare across the room.

They are, all of them, far too aware of the history written there.

Reece has the decency, at least, to grimace. Anne Marie had been the catalyst -- their relationship the beginning of the end for Adam all those years ago in Paris. “I didn't invite her,” Reece insists, wary. “She came with another guest.”

“Monty.” Urgent. “Monty, the Times is here.”

“Excuse me, I have to -- _Christ_ , Tony, good luck…” One last hopeless look, filled with sympathy, and then it is just Adam and Tony and Anne Marie headed their way.

“Adam?” She says his name like it is impossible. And -- with the way he’d left things in Paris, perhaps it had seemed impossible. _Rumors that you had been stabbed to death in Amsterdam._ “Is it really…?”

“Anne Marie.” Panic has turned him numb, immobile. “I…”

“Jean Luc's daughter.” Tony flows smoothly into the awkwardness, all tact and grace. Adam had not exaggerated when he had proclaimed him the greatest maitre d’ in Europe. He extends a hand. “It's good to see you again.”

“You’re…” Dazed, Anne Marie shakes his hand -- seaching blankly for a name. Half-remembering, floundering through the haze of drug-heavy memories and technicolor blurs of recollection. “Sorry, I'm not sure…”

“Tony.” He smiles easily. “Tony Balerdi.” Because it is a brave new world and because he _can_ , he lifts himself up on his toes to brush a kiss to Adam's stubble-rough cheek. “You two have much to talk about -- excuse me while I go to make a nuisance of myself to our host.” He will _kill_ Reece for being such a bastard. Offers Anne Marie a nod and a smile. “A pleasure to see you again.”

And then he is gone, disappearing into the milling throng of guests, and Adam is in awe of the man's quiet, easy panache. It leaves him dizzy, standing alone with Anne Marie and all of the memories that make his skin itch. Too tight. Riddled with old track marks. It won't contain the chaos, the travesty that is Adam Jones who feels like he is flying apart all over again.

“Tony.” Adam finally remembers how words work. Speaks quick and breathless. “He was your father's maitre d before…” _Before the restaurant went under. Before it all went to hell because of me._

How to explain everything that is Tony Balerdi?

“He's my partner.”

“Your…?” There is a strange, curious look in Anne Marie's eye.

“Partner,” Adam repeats, his voice distant and hollow in his own ears. “Boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

“Annie…” Just her name is like gargling glass. There are so many things that should be said, so many apologies that need to be made. “You look good.”

She does. The wildness -- the mania, the high -- is gone from her eyes. She seems steadier.

“You're better off without me… Getting sober, it’s -- well, it fucking sucks. But --”

“I’m better now.” She hugs herself, swaying slightly side to side. Does not meet Adam's gaze. “I went to a clinic in Milan. They helped me stop. I’ve been clean now almost two years.”

“That's good.” Adam’s brain has turned to cotton stuffing. A clinic in Milan. And he had clawed his way out of hell with a knife and a million oysters. What a world apart.

The silence lingers between them. Heavy. Uncertain.

“We were beautiful together, you know?” The words -- half a memory -- slip wistful from her lips before she fully realizes.

Beautiful, yes. And destined for disaster.

“We were.” Adam purses his lips, nods an agreement. “Until we weren’t.”

“Yes.”

This time, when Anne Marie smiles there is no sorrow in her eyes. They are both such different people now. “I like your partner. He seems nice -- good for you.”

An incredible understatement, Adam thinks. Tony -- and everything he is -- is the best thing to ever happen to Adam.

He smiles. “I like him too.”

A call comes from somewhere in the crowd, a wave of the hand, and Anne Marie turns to go. “You know,” she says over her shoulder “Papa wanted you to have his knives. Shall I send them?”

“Yes.” Adam chokes out. “Please.” He is not worth so many second chances -- from Jean Luc, from Tony. “I hope… I want to regain everyone's respect. Be worthy of your father.”

She fixes him with a long look, soft and knowing. “You will. Take care of yourself, Adam.”

“You too.”

And then she is gone.

He is not so damaged that he can’t recover. The scars will always heal. Feeling lighter, freer than he has in years, Adam makes a slow circuit of the restaurant in search of Tony. He finds him lingering on the periphery with a champagne flute in hand, observing the goings on with keen, curious eyes.

Adam slides up behind him, slips his arms around his waist and squeezes him close, breathing in the warmth of him, the bite of clean, sharp cologne and pomade.

How could it have been only forty-eight hours ago that they stood in the Langham kitchens and with this thing unfolding, tremulous and new, between them. Tony afraid to hope, unwilling to give up on loving Adam whatever the outcome might have been. And Adam, frightened and uncertain and trying so hard to understand. To believe.

And somewhere in the middle he had realized how right it could be.

“Hey.”

“Hello.” Tony twists around to face him, kind eyes full of questions and a gentle hand on Adam’s arm. Soothing. “Is everything all right?”

Is it? Adam fidgets, electric blue eyes darting in all directions. He feels like he might crawl out of his own skin -- uneasy, penned in by the ebb and flow of guests, the noise, the curious lingering looks.

And the thought sinks in the pit of Tony’s stomach, leaves him cold with nausea. Is this where Adam changes his mind? Had he realized it was all a mistake -- that he couldn’t possibly love Tony?

Could he lose him so soon?

Before the fear has time to settle in his bones, Adam kisses his cheek. “Yeah.” He sighs, hugging Tony closer like a child with a soft toy, shoring himself up. Drawing security from Tony warm and solid in his arms. “Yeah, everything's fine. Want to take a walk?” 

Some of the tension bleeds from Tony’s shoulders, his smile softening. “Gladly.”   

They escape -- out into the cool London evening, the last of the sunlight just lingering in the dusk. Adam finds Tony’s hand between them, teases his knobby fingers between Tony’s slender knuckles.

It is almost perfect.

But there is still the flicker of doubt -- the echo of Reece’s words in his bones. _He’s just going to take advantage of you -- use up all that earnest, misguided love of yours…_

Adam is only good for breaking things, for ruining what is good.

 _I mean, Jesus Christ, I’ve been such a bastard to you. Why are you still here_?

Out of everyone, all the men in the world who would have fallen for those beautiful brown eyes, for the sharp tongue and the mischievous smile -- he had chosen Adam.

“Tony.” He has to ask, has to test the limits, to risk destroying everything all over again. “Are you sure about this? Us?”

He wouldn’t blame Tony if he said ‘no’.

The street lights illuminate the delicate, puzzled frown that crosses Tony’s face. “You know how I feel, Adam.”

_What if this doesn’t work?_

_Then at least we’ll have tried._

Adam stops short, and Tony is shocked to see the resignation -- the distress -- tangled up in the sharp lines of his face. “I destroy every good thing in my life.”

“That isn’t true.” Tony is quiet, solemn as he lifts their intertwined hands to kiss Adam’s knuckles. “You also built it back up again -- you create.”

“How is it” -- Adam will forever be awed -- “that you always see only the best in me?” His voice cracks, wavers dangerously. “After everything, you still won’t give up on me…”

Tony shrugs. The embarrassed flush across his cheeks is almost hidden in the twilight. “Is not so hard,” he hums. “I’ve known you too long to doubt you, have seen how great you can be. And, well...” He drops his gaze, shy. “I love you, and that means I do not give up on you -- even when it is _not_ so easy.”    

 _Oh, Tony._   

Adam hardly knows what it means -- to be loved like this, so earnestly and honestly.   

He strokes his thumb over the ridges of Tony’s knuckles, racking his brain for the words. For something, _anything_ , to say that might quell the rise of emotion that tightens his throat. “ _Christ_ , Tony, what did I ever do to deserve you?”    

Tony who fits so perfectly into his life -- feels like a missing piece finally slotted into place. His partner.    

“Oh.” Adam lifts his eyebrows, shot through with a thrill of panic. “Uh, sorry about before -- I know we haven't discussed anything and it's all new, but… I told Anne Marie you were my partner. My boyfriend.” Tony has never known Adam to hesitate, to be so nervous. “Is that okay?”    

And Tony would pretend to consider, to mull it over -- but he cannot help the grin that spreads like sunshine across his soft features. “Hmm. Partner?” When he says the word he absolutely glows. “I like it.”

Partners, whatever happens next.

They will make it work.


End file.
